


Winter Hush

by elle_stone



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 13:08:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17060357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: "Tell me again," she says, with a glance toward the driver's side. "How, exactly, did you get the keys to this cabin?"Bellamy shrugs. He ditched his winter coat about an hour into the drive, and by now the inside of the truck is so toasty and warm that he's rolled the sleeves of his plaid shirt up to his elbows. Even with both hands securely on the wheel, he looks at ease. "Nothing to tell," he answers. "I'm just a humble History professor, taking his girlfriend on a Christmas trip to a cozy little cabin in the mountains."A soft Bellarke Christmas in the woods.





	Winter Hush

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jeanie205](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeanie205/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Jeanie205!  
> -From your Bellarke Secret Santa

Clarke turns her head lazily to the right and stares out the passenger side window, watching the snow-dusted firs rising up out of the snow-covered ground. Persistent flurries have followed them into the mountains. When she looks out the windshield again, she sees a rutted dirt road, filthy with trodden, trampled snow, snowflakes slanting wildly through the high beams, the off-light of settling dusk. The truck sways and rocks over the uneven terrain.    


"Tell me again," she says, with a glance toward the driver's side. "How, exactly, did you get the keys to this cabin?"    


Bellamy shrugs. He ditched his winter coat about an hour into the drive, and by now the inside of the truck is so toasty and warm that he's rolled the sleeves of his plaid shirt up to his elbows. Even with both hands securely on the wheel, he looks at ease. "Nothing to tell," he answers. "I'm just a humble History professor, taking his girlfriend on a Christmas trip to a cozy little cabin in the mountains."    


Clarke snorts. "Nothing humble about you, but okay."    


That isn't entirely true—they've been together long enough now, almost a year, and she knows the hidden veins of his insecurity, shining ore embedded in steady rock. But she was attracted first and foremost to his bluster, his shows of confidence. That's what she's thinking about now.    


"So—Mafia connections?" she asks.    


Bellamy laughs. "Try again."    


"Won it in a high stakes card game in a smoky back room in Atlantic City?"    


"I wish."    


She rolls her head to the side again, this time to look at him: his familiar profile, the dimple in his chin, his hair that's growing too long over his ears.     


"Shot a man in Reno just to watch him die?"    


She can see him biting the corner of his lip, trying not to smile.    


"Got it in three, didn't I?" she asks.    


Bellamy takes a wide turn, and the truck bumps down over a slight ridge, begins at last a smooth glide downhill, toward a small two-room wood cabin tucked in among the trees. "Got in three, Griffin," he agrees.    


*    


The snow starts falling harder as they unpack the truck, the last of the light fading out between the trees as they carry in Clarke's suitcase, and Bellamy's, their food supply, several armfuls of extra blankets, and Clarke's special mystery box.    


"Mystery box?" Bellamy had asked, that morning, as she shoved it in behind the passenger's seat, underneath his plaid fleece blanket and her red and green Christmas quilt.    


"You'll be glad we have it when we get there," she promised, and he rolled his eyes. He rolls them again now as he lifts it, the last container left in the truck, and almost falls back under the surprise of its weight.     


"Lighter than I thought it would be," he notes, and Clarke laughs.    


"Just get inside," she says. "It's freezing and you're not wearing a coat, you idiot."    


"Love you, too, honeybun," he answers. He slams the back door closed with his shoulder and it echoes, a short and empty sound, in the wild quiet of the woods.    


The cabin looks rustic on the outside but is decked out with all of the modern amenities inside: not just electricity and indoor plumbing (a relief in itself, as using an outhouse in December was not an activity on Clarke's bucket list), but a central heating system as well. Bellamy adjusts the thermostat as soon as he brings the last box in. Clarke is already examining the bathroom, taking in the rectangular basin sink set in the wooden counter, running her hand over the pebbled glass shower door, and—    


"Heated floors? Bellamy Blake, there are heated floors."     


The words come out several notches too loud, but she doesn’t care.    


"Heated floors," Bellamy agrees, sounding as satisfied as if he’d installed them himself. "Merry Christmas, babe."    


She ducks her head out from around the doorway and grins. "You know the way to a girl's heart."    


"No,” he argues, “if I were really smart, I’d have renovated my home bathroom a year ago and won you over right away."    


She hopes he knows just how much he's joking, because the truth is that he _did_ ; he won her over right away; she met him and she _knew_. She knew when they engaged in their first impromptu Faculty Library debate; when she caught sight of him lecturing outside, on a warm October afternoon, his freshmen class utterly entranced at his feet; when they went on their very first date. She's never had any doubts about him.    


She considers telling him as much but it isn’t the time. He’s occupied himself with unpacking their cooler, and the main living space, stretching between the bathroom and the kitchenette, suddenly seems vast.     


She crosses it quickly, and slides between him and the open fridge door. "Hey. Let me get that. You should rest, you drove the whole way up."    


Something in her tone, too solicitous, perhaps, too _sweet_ , makes him suspicious. He shifts his weight back, giving him enough space to tilt his chin down and level her with a narrow-eyed gaze. "Got a nefarious plan up your sleeve, Griffin?"    


She crosses her arms, matches his stance. "Paranoid, Blake? I'm just trying to be nice."    


" _Too_ nice."    


She rolls her eyes and gently nudges him back. He lets himself be pushed, and Clarke kicks the fridge door closed and rests her hands on her hips, putting on her best bossy expression and her most defiant stare. "If you want to be useful, you could unpack our stuff in the bedroom." Then she lets herself soften, just a little, still arch, and reaches out to pat his arm. "But make sure you take your time."    


Bellamy still looks unsure, but ultimately, he relents. She smiles when he throws his hands up in surrender and turns to trip easily down the steps to the main room. He turns on his heel to watch her as he walks backward toward the bedroom. "I've got my eye on you, wench," he warns.     


"Back at you...  matey ."    


He laughs and she shakes her head at herself, then sighs, and sets herself to the task of stocking the cupboards and the fridge. Once that is done, and Bellamy and their suitcases are safely in the bedroom, she turns to the mystery box. It is sitting, still unopened, on the kitchen island counter.    


She lifts the lid, peeks inside, and smiles.    


*    


When Bellamy sneaks out of the bedroom twenty minutes later—after calling out on three separate occasions “Can I come out now?” and hearing, on each of those occasions, some variant of "Soon"—he sees that the main room of the cabin has caught the Christmas spirit. There are strings of lights around each of the windows, and garlands of tinsel draped across the bookshelves; little snowmen figurines on the coffee table, next to a tiny Christmas tree decorated with tiny silver ornaments; and two red Christmas stockings hanging from the fireplace. One has _Clarke_ written on it in gold thread. The other is blank.    


"I thought it would be creepy to put your name on a stocking," Clarke explains, watching with uncertainty as he reaches out to touch the soft, worn red felt. "Is... the rest of it too soon? Or too much?"    


Bellamy smiles. "Uncertainty doesn't suit you, you know. It's great. It's festive. I like the lights."    


"They go really well with the red curtains, I think," she agrees. She twitches them apart to glance outside. "It's still coming down out there. Do you think we'll be snowed in?"    


Bellamy shrugs, unconcerned. "There are worse fates," he says, and Clarke finds that she doesn't disagree.    


*    


They eat dinner by the window with the curtains open, so they can watch the mad rush of the snow, still coming down. Nighttime in the woods, at the end of the year, in the cold, seems deeper and more complete than any Clarke has ever known, but the riot of swirling white snowflakes outside is nothing but a welcome contrast to the warm, cozy comfort they've built around themselves. On top of the table, two white candles from her mystery box, their flames jumping and flickering, cast a serene glow over their faces. Beneath, Bellamy's feet, in their thick woolen socks, seek out and trap hers, feeling out her toes through layers of soft fabric.    


Later, she hands him the last clean dish to dry and asks, a simple twitch of her eyebrow up: "How do you feel about trying out that shower?" Her tone is simple, light, edging into sly. Soap bubbles still cling to her hands.    


Bellamy drops the dish towel with a decisive swat and gathers her up in his arms.    


*    


The next morning, Clarke wakes, safely cocooned in her Christmas quilt, blinks her eyes open and sees, out the window, a pure wonderland of snow. She burrows in deep, down into the warmth of the bed. She closes her eyes and opens them again, to make sure it's not a dream.    


She'd like to tell Bellamy that the morning is beautiful. She'd like to reach back and pull his arm around her, and feel his nose bumping up into the space behind her ear but—she knows without looking that he isn't there. If he were, he would have noticed her waking. She would hear his quiet morning mumblings; she would feel his kiss on the back of her neck.    


She slithers out carefully from beneath the blankets, finds her slippers and the socks she kicked off in the night, and her bathrobe hanging safely on the hook on the bedroom door. She wraps it close around herself, over her pajamas, and shuffles out into the living room. There she finds frost patterns etched across the windows, and a deep smell of coffee, just brewed, suffusing the air.

Bellamy is standing at the stove, his back to her. He jerks his head up, just a little, but doesn’t turn around, pretending he can't hear the loud drag of her slippers across the floor, that he hasn’t noticed, yet, that she’s awake. His hair is wild and sticks up in odd places, and he's left his reading glasses on the island counter, next to a novel with a well-cracked spine and the half-empty mug of coffee he’s already poured himself.    


Clarke slides up behind him and wraps her arms around his waist, slipping her hands into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. "Merry Christmas, Professor Blake," she murmurs, her voice sleep-thick and low, into the space between his shoulder blades. Though he's wrapped up in winter layers, she can still feel the solid strength of his muscles, the familiar contours of him, the comforting core of him.    


"Merry Christmas," he echoes, and flips his latest pancake over. There are three already stacked on the plate next to the stove, lovingly misshapen and golden brown at the edges. "How'd you sleep?"    


"How do you think?" she pulls herself up on her toes and watches the movements of his hands over his shoulder. "With the undisturbed calm of the innocent, of course."    


"Well-deserved," he answers. "Should we have these with strawberries or blueberries?"    


Clarke hums, thoughtful for a moment, and suggests, "A little of both, don't you think?"    


*    


Not long past noon, when the sun is at its brightest, they decide to venture outside into the snow. Bellamy lends Clarke his scarf, which drags almost to her feet before she wraps it around her neck, and when the zipper on his jacket catches, she pries it loose for him, then zips him carefully up. Slowly, slowly, with nimble fingers—when she reaches the top, she leans up on her toes, and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.    


Outside, the air is bracing and clear, though not cold, not bitter or sharp. Clarke breathes in deeply, and wonders if this is the first time in all her life that she has ever truly breathed, if she can justly say that she has known _how_ to breathe before today. There is no wind, and there are no clouds, and the sun shines almost directly above them, a translucent gold over the clean, new snow. Bellamy finds something like a path through the trees, and they trudge along it, side by side. It is difficult to hold hands while they’re both wearing gloves, but they manage. And it is difficult to walk through the thick drifts, but they manage that, too. It crunches beneath their feet with each step.    


For a while, they try to talk—    


"Okay, worst Christmas you've ever had?"    


"That's a little depressing, don't you think? But—I guess it would be the first year I couldn't spend it with my sister. She was a sophomore in college and we were fighting. It… wasn't great. What about you?"    


"Ah—high school. Yeah. Sophomore year. Also because of a fight. I thought my best friend had betrayed a confidence of mine and I refused to speak to him. Then I realized I was wrong and it wasn't him..."    


"That apology must have been fun."    


"Oh, yeah. But he was surprisingly cool about it. Forgave me in a second. Anyway—best Christmas?"    


"Mmmm , I don't know. This one's a strong contender."    


"Come on, you're such a sap."    


"Am I? Then so are you, because I _know_ you're thinking the same thing—"    


but eventually, tiring as they drag themselves down the obscured path, they grow quiet, and instead find themselves simply listening to the forest, the intermittent sounds of tree branches cracking beneath the heavy weight of the snow, the steady rhythm of their feet breaking through the trail. Clarke glances back over her shoulder. Two steady sets of footprints there, no other sign of human life. She can't feel her nose or her cheeks, but she can feel Bellamy's hand still holding on to hers. She's tired, but not ready to turn around for home just yet.    


*    


When Bellamy mentions that the fireplace really works, Clarke, who had assumed that it was simply for show, and who can hardly contain her excitement at the thought of a cozy, crackling fire in their living room, insists they start one as a way to bring back feeling to their numb fingers, and noses, and toes. While Bellamy stacks the logs, Clarke slips into the kitchen and makes two large mugs of hot cocoa, each topped off with a layer of mini-marshmallows, bobbing cheerily along on the surface. She leans in close and breathes in deep of the familiar, sweet scent.    


Outside, the wind picks up, howls and rattles at the windowpanes, throws swirls of snow against the glass. Inside, they are warm. They wear soft pajamas and well-worn t-shirts, old sweaters with holes in the sleeves for their thumbs. Clarke arranges Bellamy's plaid fleece blanket around them, and rubs her feet together in their thick, fuzzy socks. He curls his arm around her waist. They watch the flames flickering in the fireplace, listen to the snap and hiss of the logs as they burn. 

"So who did you really kill," she asks, "to get the keys to this place?"    


The corner of Bellamy's mouth twitches up, and at first, he only takes another sip of his cocoa, as if this were a  secret he would rather keep all to himself. Clarke is patient. She watches him grab for one of the tiny marshmallows with his tongue.    


Then, with some reluctance, he admits, "My friend, Miller—"    


"You killed your friend?" She does not pretend to be shocked, only subtly impressed. "And then buried his body in the woods, I assume? Smart, Blake. Very smart."    


He rolls his eyes and nudges her leg with his foot. "He offered me the cabin for the weekend. Said he wasn't going to be using it anyway and if I was really serious about you, I should take you up here." He hesitates, then adds, quieter now, so that Clarke has to listen carefully for the words: "And show you how much."    


She runs her fingertips up and down the side of her mug. The surface is warm and smooth. She can hear the wind outside, and the fire within. She turns a little, settling down against him, getting comfortable, and feels the way he re-adjusts his hold around her, gentle but secure.    


"So you're serious about me?" she says, not truly a question, and not at all surprised.    


"Pretty serious, yeah. I invited you up here, didn't I?" A pause; he takes another drink. She knows she will kiss him soon, and that his mouth will taste warm and sweet. "And you're serious about us, too."    


"I accepted the invitation, didn't I?"    


He stretches out his legs, bumps his foot against her foot this time. She takes his mug, and hers, and reaches out to set them on the coffee table. Then she twists around in his arms until they are curled close around each other, face to face and eye to eye. He tastes, as she expected, like chocolate, like winter, like coming in from the cold.     


"Merry Christmas, Bellamy," she murmurs.    


He pulls her directly on top of him, pulls the blanket up from where it has half-fallen on the floor, and wraps them up again, cozy and close. "Merry Christmas, Clarke," he echoes.    


And it is.   



End file.
